


Look Upon Me and Despair

by arthureameslove



Series: The Unknown Watcher [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Jon needs some love and reassurance, M/M, Nightmares, Touch-Averse Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, theyre gonna be fine don’t worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29174076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthureameslove/pseuds/arthureameslove
Summary: Jon has been having nightmares. That's okay. He can deal with them. It's fine. He can deal with them, alone, because Martin has been doing better. Martin has been so happy. Jon can deal with them.It's fine.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: The Unknown Watcher [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2141703
Comments: 20
Kudos: 184





	1. Chapter 1

_Jon could not find Martin._

_He was nowhere in the estate that he could find, and this shouldn’t have been so worrying, except that it was. Part of Jon’s mind insisted that it was alright, that they all could leave, now that the Stranger no longer prowled outside. But the other, more frantic, more primally afraid part of him insisted that, no, the Stranger was out there, keeping him trapped inside the estate and that if Martin wasn’t in here then he was_ out there _, that the Stranger_ had him, _and Jon could do nothing but remain and imagine all the horrible things being done to him--_

 _Jon skidded into the Archive and saw him, in his favorite place by the window. Martin was curled in on himself, small, with his knees tucked into his chest and his head resting on the window, but there was something..._ wrong. 

_Jon realized he could see fog leaving Martin’s mouth, and that Martin’s eyes were clouded over like a corpse’s._

_Panic spiked in Jon’s chest like a physical thing, barbed, taking his breath away. He couldn’t get to Martin fast enough. How could Jon have left him alone? Because that must have been what had happened, it_ must _have._

_“Martin?” he said, trying to keep his voice from trembling. Martin didn’t move, just breathed out fog, even as Jon reached him, hand lighting on his shoulder. “Martin, please, look at me. Martin--”_

_Martin’s eyes cleared, just the slightest bit at the sound of his voice, and Jon could hear him inhale, as if coming out of a deep dream. And then Martin’s eyes flicked up to meet his._

_For a moment, Martin’s expression was frozen. But then it changed, his brows furrowing, his eyes widening, his mouth dropping open as he looked at Jon. He screamed, an awful, fearful sound ripped from his throat._

_Jon lurched back in shock with a jolt of unease, and instinctively tried to look behind him. Surely Martin saw something behind him?_

_But he found he couldn’t look away._

_Martin was staring at him, eyes wide, trembling. Red began to pool in the inside corners of Martin’s eyes._

_No, Jon thought, horrified, no, no they’d...they’d fixed the world, set it back, he—he was supposed to look like himself again._

_Martin let out a sound like a sob, his expression twisted in agony and horror, the blood vessels in his eyes bursting. His nose began to bleed, a steady stream._

_Jon couldn't look away. Couldn’t even turn his head. He reached out, trying to get Martin to look away, but Martin recoiled from his grasp, still looking, even as his eyes destroyed themselves and his breaths came shorter, and shorter, and shorter—_

_“Stop,” Martin begged him, tucked as far away from Jon as he could in the windowsill. “Please,” he sobbed, the sound ripping at something in Jon’s chest. “Please stop, please—“_

_“I’m not—“ Jon gasped out._

_“You—you’re hurting me,” Martin cried, and Jon..._

_Jon realized he’d heard those words from Martin before. It was like being gutted, that realization. It was one of the first things Martin had ever said to him._

_And suddenly they were in front of the Archive, and Jon’s grip was around Martin’s wrist, bruising, and Martin was crying, scrabbling to get away from him, and that fear in his eyes—it wasn’t something Jon had to imagine, he’d seen it before._

_“Please,” Martin whimpered, “please—“_

_But Jon’s grip only tightened. He could see the flash of pain on Martin’s face, the choking terror on it, but Jon was trapped in his unyielding body, unable to change this warped memory._

_That hunger that he’d felt for so long at the estate, with nothing but written statements, dug into him and blurred his vision, his thoughts. Martin was terrified and Jon could smell it._

_This was_ Martin _, Jon wanted to scream at himself. Wanted to force himself to stop, but he couldn’t. He looked down at this intruder to the estate, and thought, like a monster,_ this is a meal.

Jon jerked himself awake, heart pounding, his face slick with sweat. He felt too hot for his skin. He breathed harshly in the aching silence of the cabin, which only creaked minutely in the winds from outside. Martin’s arm was slung over his chest and Martin’s face was turned toward him, buried in the pillow next to him, his even breaths ghosting over Jon’s ear. 

He was too close, Jon thought. What if...what if Martin opened his eyes and saw...what if he was still...?

He couldn’t catch his breath. His heart hammered and he felt sick, the memory of Martin’s horror struck expression slick with blood the only thing he could see when his eyes closed. Gingerly, his own hand shaking, Jon took Martin’s arm. He remembered, with a flash, the feeling of Martin’s bones groaning with the weight of his brutal grip, and the breath he let out was close to a sob. As quickly as he dared, he moved Martin’s arm off him. He froze when Martin made a slight sound, a huff of breath that made Jon suddenly want to cry. But Martin didn’t stir after that.

Jon slid out of bed, his heart thick in his throat. He could feel his face prickling with sweat and the sensation was all too close to the warping curse of the Stranger, shifting against his skin.

What if, he couldn’t help but think, feeling sick, what if, what if, what if—

He stumbled into the bathroom, turning on the lights, and faced the mirror. 

His own reflection, both familiar and alien at the same time, stared back at him. He was pallid. Dark circles under his eyes. He knew Martin had seen them, and he had seen Martin’s concerned glances at him the past few days. 

But Martin hadn’t been having those Lonely nightmares here. In the cabin, Martin slept soundly, he looked lighter, his face brighter, his cheeks less hollow. Jon didn’t want to ruin that for him. Didn’t want to disturb the peace he’d found here with his own worries. Martin didn’t deserve that, not after everything he’d done for them. 

Jon stared at his reflection. He furrowed his brow, making sure the face in the mirror did the same, making sure it was truly his, because there were some moments he felt it was not. Sometimes, he drifted past a mirror in this place and startled. He was so unused to his own face, it sometimes felt like another person’s.

He didn’t really know what Martin saw in it. It was a face that looked tired and worn. Prentiss’ scars marred his neck and the edges of his cheeks. His mouth looked at home in a frown. 

He narrowed his eyes, and the face in the mirror did the same. 

“Jon?” Martin’s voice came, too close, too close, and then he was opening the door.

It was instinctive, to flinch away, to cover his face with his hands. To feel breathless terror at the thought of hurting Martin, just by looking at him. 

He heard Martin’s sharp inhale, as he realized, abruptly, how foolish his reaction had been. 

He lowered his hands slowly, shame creeping up thick in his throat. He’d woken Martin up, and made him look like that, his brow creasing with concern, the corners of his mouth slightly down-turned. It was nothing like Martin should look. Jon felt physically pained, seeing that sad, wide-eyed look of concern on Martin’s face. 

“Jon?” Martin asked, studying his face.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said. Even after swallowing, he didn't sound normal. He sounded rough, as if all through the night he had been letting a scream well up in his throat, but had refused to let it out. “I didn’t mean to wake you up, I—“

“Are you okay?” Martin asked, taking a step closer to him.

Jon couldn’t help the reaction that came to him. His dream was fresh in his mind, where Martin looked at him with horror, where Martin tried, desperately to get away from him and Jon wouldn’t _let him._ Jon’s reaction, when Martin reached for him, was to flinch away.

Martin’s expression made Jon want to vomit. Martin looked concerned and hurt and confused all at once. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon breathed, that clawing guilt eating away at the inside of his chest, sharper with every quickening breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry—“

His breaths roared away from him, violent, heaving things he couldn’t control. His head felt hot, his lungs burning, his eyes watering. He took a step back, his legs hitting the back of the tub, and he stumbled, nearly falling back. Martin reached for him, his hand wrapping around Jon’s and pulling him back upright before he could, but the contact burned something hot and sharp in Jon’s chest, and he sobbed with it. Martin let go immediately, eyes wide.

Jon wanted to bury himself into Martin’s side and never let go again. And at the same time, Jon couldn’t stand the thought, with the memory of his own grip around Martin’s arm burning in his head. 

He sank to the floor, his eyes wrenched shut, his palms pressed against them so hard he saw stars. His breaths tore out of him, the only noise in the awful, silence. 

He’d ruined it. This peace Martin had found here, he’d ruined it. Just like he ruined everything he touched, everything that even _looked_ at him—

There was a sound of fabric rustling, as Martin settled, cross legged on the tile across from him. “Jon,” Martin said, his voice so very soft.

Jon couldn’t find an answer, among the misery that swirled in his chest. 

“Do you want to be alone—?”

“No,” Jon answered immediately, lowering his hands, wrapping them around his knees. He immediately wanted to bury his face in his hands again. He couldn’t stand the way Martin was looking at him—how could Martin bear to look at him like that?

“Okay,” Martin murmured, “okay, Jon, I’m here. Do you want to be touched?”

Jon hesitated, opening his mouth and finding he couldn’t answer. 

Martin nodded. “Okay,” he said, far too calm, “that’s okay. I’ll be here, then. If you do.”

There was a few moments of silence, in which Jon could only hear his ragged breathing, slowly beginning to even out. As the panic subsided, as the haze from his dream cleared to the reality of the freezing tile under his bare feet and the uncomfortable press of the bathtub lip at his back, he felt his face burn. Stupid, he thought. You’re so stupid. You’ve woken Martin up for nothing. You’ve panicked over nothing, everything is fine. Everything is fine, everything is perfect.

He didn’t know why it was so hard for his mind to accept that.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not quite looking at Martin. He blinked away the irritating tears still clinging to his lashes, scrubbing at them with the palm of his hand. 

“You don’t have to be sorry, Jon,” Martin said. Jon remained quiet, even though he was certain he _did_ have some things to feel utterly wretched for. “Do you...want to talk about it?”

“No,” Jon rasped. Not just then. He didn’t want to ruin the night even further.

Martin took an audible breath. “Do you...is it okay if I...?”

Jon looked up to see Martin’s arms outstretched towards him, a foot away. It would be so easy to close the gap. 

He could feel tears pricking behind his eyes again, his face screwing up to try to hold them back. 

“Jon?” Martin breathed, so gently, so _concerned._

Jerkily, Jon nodded, and Martin immediately closed the distance between them. Martin tucked Jon’s face into the curve of his shoulder, his broad palm rubbing circles into Jon’s back. He was so warm, and he was murmuring, soft nonsense reassurances, and Jon loved him so much it hurt.

Jon didn’t deserve him.

Jon tucked himself into Martin and let the tears fall, his hands clutching Martin’s shirt like a lifeline. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon deserves (and gets) some comfort

Jon drew himself out of the haze of exhaustion when a warm mug was pressed into his hands. He held onto it automatically, quickly skirting his hands around and finding the handle when it grew too hot to hold around the middle. Jon looked into it, blinking the tiredness from his eyes. “What kind?” he asked, his voice a little hoarse.

“Chamomile,” Martin answered, taking up his own mug and settling himself in the spot next to Jon on the small sofa. “I know it’s not your favorite,” Martin said, before Jon could imply as much with a look, “but I figured it might be best to go the non-caffeinated route, love.”

Jon swallowed around the lump in his throat that always appeared at the endearment, looking down into his mug to steady himself. When he looked back, Martin was staring back at him, a slight crease in his brow, his eyes soft, concerned. 

He looked tired. Jon could see it in the way he blinked, a fraction too slow. 

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” Jon found himself saying. 

“It’s okay, Jon,” Martin said, reaching out to him with a hand. It hovered just before reaching him, Martin’s expression taking on a questioning look. 

Jon didn’t always want to be touched. It was something he’d learned when things had quieted down again, after the curse of the Stranger had lifted. It hadn’t seemed to matter back then. A prickle of discomfort that a hand on his shoulder or the back of his hand brought was inconsequential compared to what they were all facing. But after the Eye had opened again...sometimes the barest touches against his skin would bring back memories of what it had been like under the Stranger’s veil--a _not_ -sensation, an almost touch. 

He remembered when it had first happened. When he’d been making dinner in the kitchen and Martin had quietly come up behind him, a gentle hand lighting on his back when he hadn’t expected it. His heart had lurched up to his throat and before he’d known what he was doing he’d jerked away, and Martin had stared at him wide-eyed, the space between them suddenly cold. 

Martin had actually taken it all far better than he had. _“Okay,”_ Martin had said calmly, after Jon had frantically explained, panicked at what Martin must have thought of him. _“Let me know if you think you’re feeling like that. And I won’t sneak up on you again.”_

Now, he took Martin’s hand where it hovered, threading their fingers together. 

Martin leaned back against the couch, his head tilting against the cushions as he looked at Jon. His thumb brushed circles against the back of Jon’s hand. “Am I right in thinking this isn’t the first night this has happened?” Martin asked softly, searching his face.

Jon knew he must have looked ragged. Exhausted. Not much to look at, at all. He bit down a sigh, taking a sip of the tea Martin had made. It was nice. Floral, not too bitter. 

It wasn’t his favorite though. He still liked the Assam Martin made for him. 

He remembered, after they’d first come to the cabin, when Martin had gone to the grocery store and, immediately open returning, bustled around the kitchen, a whirl-wind. 

_“What on earth?”_ Jon had asked, watching him with a grin, resting his arms on the counter and leaning against it.

 _“Milk, Jon!”_ Martin had said back, a huge grin splitting his face when he popped up from the cabinet, looking for the kettle. _“Finally have_ whole _milk--”_

 _“So?”_ Jon had asked, utterly bemused.

 _“So?!”_ Martin repeated, looking at him as if he’d said something outrageous. _“I can make_ proper _tea for you!”_

Jon had blinked at him. _“But you make lovely tea.”_

Martin had stumbled a little then, that beautiful pink flush spreading across his cheeks. _“That’s sweet, Jon,”_ he’d said, in that tone that meant he was trying not to sound flustered. _“But I'm afraid you really haven't had a_ proper _cup of Assam tea yet_.”

It had been lovely tea. Steeped for about five minutes. Splash of milk, sugar, and a smidge of honey. He remembered Martin looked very pleased with both himself and Jon’s rapturous reaction.

Now, in the dim lamp light, dawn still a ways away outside, and his fatigue dragging him down...it felt like a long time ago. 

“Jon?” Martin prompted, gently, and Jon shook himself, realizing he’d been spacing.

“Sorry,” he murmured. He sighed, and confirmed, “no, it’s...it’s not the first time.”

Martin’s mouth thinned as he pressed his lips together, that furrow in his brow deepening. It was one of the things Jon loved about him, that he didn’t usually have to fight to read what Martin was feeling. Martin often wore his feelings plainly on his face. 

Now, though, it just made Jon feel guilty. He hadn’t wanted to make Martin worry, that had been the whole _point._ They’d _come here_ so Martin could feel better, so that he could finally have a moment’s peace without someone else’s memories hounding him into the ground--(and Jon still hadn’t forgiven Barnabas Bennett, not that anyone had asked him. Still thought the Web had asked too much, of everyone, but most of all Martin). And it had been better for Martin. 

And here he was, going and ruining it all again. 

“Jon, why...why didn’t you say anything?” Martin asked, his face pinched in that devastating concern, eyes sad as they looked him over. 

This was exactly what he’d been hoping to avoid. Because the things he was dreaming...it wasn’t like anything could be done to fix it, shut them off. And now Martin would just worry, lose sleep because Jon was losing sleep, and it was such an utter mess, because everything was _over._ There were no longer any monsters hounding them, no more desperate races against the clock. It was supposed to be _over,_ and yet he couldn’t sleep. 

Martin’s thumb was still running gentle circles over his skin, and Jon looked down at their hands, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat. “I didn’t want to...to ruin this place, I suppose,” he admitted, on a whisper. 

Martin made a small sound that Jon couldn’t interpret, but when Jon glanced up at him, Martin was staring back intently. “What do you mean?” Martin asked, nothing but utter confusion in his voice.

“I just,” Jon swallowed around the words, glancing at his tea and absently noticed the hand holding the mug was trembling slightly. The liquid in the cup thrummed with little ripples. “It’s over,” he whispered, “it’s supposed to be over. For you and for me. But I still...I still dream of it. The Stranger.”

Slowly, Martin’s free hand appeared in his field of vision, extracting the mug from his weak grip and setting it on the table. Jon blinked up from it, turning to look at him, but Martin was already closing the small gap between them. His fingers untangled from Jon’s, but only to wrap him closer, the warm comfort of his arms pleasantly familiar, grounding. Jon sank into it, letting his head drop to Martin’s shoulder. One of Martin’s hands rose to card through his hair, and Jon allowed himself the indulgence of going boneless, letting out a sigh. God, he was so tired.

“I’m sorry,” Martin murmured, his head turning and pressing a quick kiss into Jon’s hair. “I can’t imagine those are easy to have.”

“No,” Jon agreed tiredly.

“Do you want to talk about them?” Martin asked softly.

Jon went still, considering. 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, of course,” Martin added. 

Jon took a breath, and said, on an exhale, “I’ve dreamt I still can’t be looked upon. That I hurt you because of it. I’ve dreamt of those days you were taken by Nikola. I...I dreamt of that night we almost lost everyone, but in the dreams they were...” Jon’s voice nearly gave out just thinking about it, but he swallowed and rallied, “they were gone. Tim and Melanie and Basira and Sasha. All of them. Even you. And then the only one left was Nikola, and in that moment I always thought...that I wouldn’t mind dying, because what would be the point in living, after that? If...if there was no one I cared about, anymore. But then Nikola wouldn’t even kill me.”

Martin’s arms tightened around him almost painfully. He didn’t say anything, but Jon could feel the slight hitch in his breathing, like he was trying to choke back tears. 

“I’ve dreamt of the first night we met,” Jon admitted, hoarsely, after a moment. He stared sightlessly at the fabric of Martin’s jumper, his vision blurring. “When you were utterly terrified of me. I-I don’t think I ever even apologized for that--”

“Jon,” Martin interrupted, his voice thick. When he pulled back to look at him his eyes were wide and watery. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”

Unbidden, Jon’s eyes dropped to Martin’s arm, and he said, “I hurt you then, though.”

“Jon,” Martin said again, his lovely, broad palms cupping the sides of Jon’s face, guiding him to meet his eyes. Jon was glad, then, that Martin’s face was always so open, so expressive. Because he could see nothing but that softness in his eyes, and the care woven into every aspect of his expression. “I want you to know that there’s _nothing_ you have to be forgiven for. But if it would help you to hear it, then I forgive you.” He looked between Jon’s eyes as if checking to see if Jon well and truly understood. “Okay?”

Jon shut his eyes for a moment, his throat working silently. Finally, he nodded. “Okay,” he breathed, opening his eyes. 

He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the way Martin looked at him, as if he really was something lovely, something painful to look _away_ from. 

“Good,” Martin murmured, softly. Then, more so, “I love you. And I want you to know, you—you could never ruin this place, Jon. I like it here because you’re here with me. Otherwise...it would just be any other place.”

Jon felt that overwhelming emotion cloud up his throat, pricking the back of his eyes. “Oh,” he breathed.

Martin smiled, soft and lovely. “I love you.”

Jon swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I love you, too.”

Martin leaned in, and pressed a lingering, gentle kiss to his lips, before pulling back ever so slightly and searching his face. “Do you want to try getting some more sleep?” Martin asked. “Or should we stay up? It’s close to sunrise now anyway.” 

Jon felt a stab of guilt at the thought, his eyes catching on the hints of tiredness he could see on Martin’s face. “I...you don’t have to stay up just because--”

“I don’t think I could sleep knowing you weren’t, Jon,” Martin said, a little ruefully. 

Jon swallowed dryly. “I know,” he said. “That’s why I didn’t say anything in the first place.”

Martin blinked at him, his brow furrowing. “Jon,” admonished. 

“I know,” Jon muttered, looking away.

Martin sighed, that slight irritation Jon had seen in the set of his shoulders mostly dissipating. “Jon, I...I know you don’t want to...worry me. And...if you want to handle these nights yourself, well then I’m not going to--to force you to tell me about them. But...” Jon looked up at him when he hesitated, and caught the moment Martin’s eyes flicked back to his. “It helped me,” Martin said softly, “when I would wake up, and you were there. When you could hold me, and help me remember what was real, and what wasn’t. I’d...I’d like to give you the same comfort, if you’d let me.”

Jon took a shaky breath, looking away, blinking against the desire to cry. His eyes settled on the tea, in the mug Martin had just seemed to know was his favorite, without asking. “I can try,” he found himself saying, softly.

* * *

The next night, he dreamt of Nikola wearing Martin’s face and speaking in his voice. 

He shuddered himself awake, horror and a lingering grief at the very idea carving their way through his ribs. He breathed mechanically through the tears that had made a vice of his throat, instinctively trying to keep quiet. 

Martin shifted beside him, making a sleepy, muted noise, and Jon automatically froze. 

_I’d like to give you the same comfort, if you’d let me._

Jon thought about burying himself in the curve of Martin’s side, letting his warmth drive away the lingering terror of Nikola’s memory, and the thought was so tempting the sob he’d been trying to stifle slipped out of his throat.

Martin’s body beside him went abruptly still. Slowly, the bed creaked as Martin shifted, pushing up on one arm, peering at him with sleep muddled confusion in the dark. Jon stared at his face, cataloguing every feature. It didn’t look wrong, like it had with Nikola. Every freckle was just where it was supposed to be, the features moved like they were supposed to. 

“Jon?” Martin asked, his voice rough from sleep.

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispered.

Martin must have realized something from his tone, because then he was shifting closer, his eyes sharper as they looked over Jon’s face. “Jon,” Martin said, his expression rife with concern. Jon could see his desire to reach out in the tension of his arms where he was pushing off the bed. “Do you want to be--?”

Jon nodded as another sob broke out of his throat, and then Martin was there, in his arms, warm and real and right. His trembling fingers threaded themselves through the slight holes in the knit jumper Martin wore, and he buried his face into the curve of it, breathing in the smell of the detergent Martin liked, light and lavender-scented.

Martin’s hand rubbed over his back, his other hand a warm weight at the back of his head. “It’s alright,” Martin was murmuring, repeating, “you’re alright. We’re alright. I’m here. You’re here. I love you.”

Those phrases, repeated, until they almost sounded nonsensical. The unrelenting flood of them was like a warm weight in and of itself, settling over him. The sharp, panicked, ugly fear in his chest was fading. 

Jon let himself sink into the comfort of it, the almost absurd amount of reassurances that he seemed to need, in that moment. He’d never been good at it. Receiving comfort. It always felt like it would have been better spent on other people. He didn’t tend to know what to do with it once he had it. 

It was strangely...simple, though. To let himself be held, then. Let the cold fear fade as if it had never been there at all. 

After a while, he followed Martin in laying back down, letting his head rest on Martin’s chest, Martin’s fingers carding gently through his hair, sending lovely shivers up his scalp. Martin’s heartbeat thumped steadily under Jon’s ear, grounding in its unfailing consistency. 

Perhaps it wasn’t a cure, Jon considered, as the sound lulled him further back into the clutches of the sleep he’d been so afraid of, before. 

But, Jon thought, as Martin ran Jon’s hair pleasantly through his fingers, it was certainly something he never wanted to be without again.

As it was, when he finally drifted off again, he didn’t dream of anything but lavender and chamomile tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a Martin hug to chase all the nightmares away. I imagine Martin gives the best hugs. 
> 
> I'm a bit rusty writing Jon ngl, but I do love it.

**Author's Note:**

> hehe i just wanted to write something angsty I guess
> 
> this is basically Jon dealing with some of the inherent trauma of having a face that literally hurts people to look at


End file.
